


Fractures

by 2x2verse (agent_florida), Mystical



Series: The Big Banging Theory [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Closeted Character, Daddy Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystical/pseuds/Mystical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's different when it's Nepeta or Bro or hell, even Rose because you've kissed and fucked them but you've ever dated them and this time it's Jade and her alien cuttlefish princess girlfriend and suddenly it's not okay.</p><p>You thought you've gotten over this shit. Hell, John has, Rose has, as far as you can tell everyone else has and you thought. You thought you had as well, you thought you were stronger than this, but after seeing her face you remember golden ships and dead bros and dead Daves and dead Johns and you've died so many times for him, for them, for all of them and even after ten years, that's not something that can be easily forgotten.</p><p>And John is still doing his oblivious no-homo schtick.</p><p>You're going to need a lot of drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agent_florida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/gifts).



It’s 9 pm on a Thursday night and there’s been an itch at your back, your thighs, your dick all day. You can hear John clack-clack, clack-clacking away at his laptop in the next room and part of you wants to go to him and press kisses to his mouth, his neck, his collarbone. Maybe he’ll put on his cute “Dave I’m not gay” act at first but you know it’ll be so easy to turn him into putty at your hands.

Instead, you breathe out and lean back against what you call your feathery asshole pillow nest and what Karkat calls your “PERVERSE PUBLIC PILE, DO YOU SLEEP ON THAT THING? DON’T TELL ME YOU FONDLE YOUR AUTOEROGENOUS SHAME GLOBES ON THAT SAD EXCUSE OF A PILE. SHIT, YOU DO, DON’T YOU? I’M SURPRISED A PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF MY DISGUST HASN’T CRAWLED THROUGH THE SCREEN AND TOOK A RECORD-BREAKING STEAMING DUMP ON YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU LOVE. HUMANITY IS ABHORRANT AND I AM IN SPADES WITH MYSELF AND THE REST OF MY PATHETIC MEAGER SPECIES FOR HAVING CREATED SOMETHING AS PLATONICALLY LOATHESOME AS YOU, EVEN THE ONES WHO DON’T HAVE A HAND IN YOUR CREATION BECAUSE BELONGING IN THE SAME GENUS AS US IS SHAMEFUL. HOW PERVERSE ARE YOU TO EVEN THINK OF DOING CONCUPISCENT ACTIVITIES IN A PILE. FUCK, I NEED A DRINK, I LITERALLY FEEL LIKE I WILL UPCHUCK AN ENTIRE WEEK’S WORTH OF MEALS AND BURY YOUR SAD EXCUSE OF A HIVE UNDER THE FORCE OF MY REVULSION.”

(he was so hard at the thought of doing it in a pile and you pretty much pissed yourself laughing)

You’re still fully clothed (today was one of those days where you actually had to dress nice and impress people, you like to think you do a pretty good job of that) and you run a hand from your chest to your belly, shivering as cool fabric slides against oversensitive skin. You feel stifled and itchy but the way it slides over you is so good and your tie is a conspicuous weight at your neck and fuck, fuck you’re tenting in your dress pants and you haven’t even touched yourself yet and (you want someone else’s hand there) you want someone else’s hand there, who are you kidding, but you don’t want to upset this delicate balance.

The three weeks he spent dancing around you was fucking torture and you don’t want to repeat that but it’s so  _hard_  sometimes always waiting for him to initiate when all you want is to just be  **touched.**

You bite your lip and slide your hands up your thighs, your thin stick thighs and you’re deliberately teasing yourself. You can still hear him on his laptop in the other room, occasionally laughing, and you lull your head back, sinking into soft cotton and you imagine

his soft pants as you grip his hips and  _grind,_ _wet breath washing over your ear and_  chapped lips at your neck as he holds both your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head

his aggravated hissing as you squirm too much for his liking and fuck you love it when he gets possessive

the way he screams as you piston in and out of him and the way his voice gets all choked and soft as he approaches orgasm and the look on his face when he just lets go and  _feels_  and you know how to make him feel good you know all the right buttons to push you’re good, so good at what you do and why can’t he just see-

You’re silent as you unbutton your slacks and pull down the zipper, shoving your pants and your boxers down to pool at your ankles. Your dick is already aching hard and you bite your lip as you dip your fingers into the precum, trailing it down and then back up, feather-light touches that you’d barely register if it was on any other part of your body. Contrary to what John thinks, you’re a masturbatory ninja, you just know how to tease him and goad him even by yourself. Years of living with an impudent bro and inquisitive aliens and an intrusive sister taught you how to quickly and efficiently choke the chicken. Until you started having sex with them. That’s. Uh. A different story.

You can still hear in him the other room.

What if you rile him up. You really want to rile him up. You can’t help it, he makes it too easy and he loves it when you moan and gasp and you

wonder if he’ll barge in (he never comes, he always barges, he never knocks, he raps, he never pushes, he shoves) and press you into the mattress and replace your hand with his, you’re good, you’re so good, you’re so hard and you’ve barely touched yourself and it’s him, it’s all his, this is all for him

sit in his room and keep talking to whoever he’s talking with while pretending everything’s normal, everything’s okay and will he power through with a boner or will he touch himself while biting back gasps and trying to keep his typing consistent and steady

drop his hand to the front of his jeans and palm himself, just for relief, just to alleviate the pressure at first and bite his lip at how good it feels and undo his button unzip his fly and grip and one stroke turns to two turns to three turns to ten and try and keep back all those noises that drive you crazy and fail because you make him scream even when you’re not in the same room as him

bolt to the bathroom and run a cold shower and god the last time he did that, before Rose came, you just imagined him pressing his forehead against cold porcelain, hands shaking as he fought not to touch himself and you had to jerk off again

Goddamn, you want him so bad.

You suck in a harsh breath through your nose when you slide your thumb over your slit and spread the precursor to your hunky love gunk over the head of your dick. Fuck, and your other fingers are barely wrapped around your 100% all natural beef stick, skin grazing skin, and you still feel yourself pulse in your hands. The urge to just grip and stroke and stroke is so strong.

Instead, you pull your hand away, trailing it up your thigh and leaving a smear of wetness where precum dribbled onto your fingers. Your dick pulses again, wanting to be  _touched_  and everything everywhere is sensitive and aching and you barely bite back a groan when you clothes you still have on brushes over your skin. Your other hand deftly undoes the buttons on the suit jacket, the dress shirt, and pushes your undershirt up until it bunches at your elbows and you shiver as (comparatively) cool air hits your heated skin.

When you finally reach down and squeeze you let out a hitched breath that threatens to bloom into an all-out moan. God you want nothing more than to touch yourself and the urge is so strong and you abruptly pull away, clenching your hand around your thigh and digging your nails into your skin and it only serves to amplify the pulse of need that runs through you, you can probably get hit by a speeding train right now and still think it feels good because fucking everything feels good and fuck.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” you breathe out so quietly that it’s nothing more than a wisp of breath ghosting over your lips. You rake your clean hand through your styled hair and muss it from where it was in its sharp side part and you imagine John’s fingers in your skull, sharp and unyielding and guiding you where he wants you to go and why the fuck do you do this to yourself even when you’re jerking off, this is suppose to be about you, not him-

but this is about you, this is about what you want and you want _him_ and you’re so fucking stupid for your idiot best bro and you’d punch yourself in the dick if you weren’t so turned on right now and if you were actually into the romantic self-hate thing like Karkat. You figure life metaphorically plunders your unlubed ass enough, anyhow, no need to add to it with physical violence.

You lick your lips and kick your pants and boxers onto the floor, spreading your legs wider. Your toes curl when you feel a drop of cum land on your stomach and you’re so hard, dick flushed an angry red and drooling a thin line onto exposed skin and it’ll be so easy to just touch it, wrap your fingers around it and _squeeze_ and pretend your hands are bigger and wider

or maybe not his hands. Maybe his ass. Or. Or. His. His lips, and you have to actually bite your tongue to stop yourself from moaning as you recall drunk blowjobs that he pretends to not remember the next morning. But you remember. Fuck, you do, and he looks so sinful peering up at you with that shy, timid expression as his lips wrap around your cock and even while blackout drunk he still remembers to mind his teeth, he’s a natural and you’ve taught him so well and now this is your reward.

Well. Not actually, but imagination is a wonderful thing, and your eyes slip close as you rub the heel of your hand against the head of your dick. If you just slick it enough – your palm rests over the bowl of your spooge spitter and it’s nothing close to a mouth but it’s close enough, it’s as good as you can get right now. When he’s pushed to the limits of his own mind he’s so honest and open and he just. He just wants to please you and god sometimes you feel bad, you feel horrible, you feel like you’re taking advantage of him and hiding him away from the world but then he looks at you like he wants to rip you open and devour you and you’re so fucking terrified and god you wish he’d look at you like that more often.

Your thighs shake when you finally pull your hand away. Your hand is too, just, everywhere. Everywhere is shaking. By now you’re panting, soft little puffs of air that dissipate in the muggy heat of your room as soon as they leave your throat and you’re far from coming with this little stimulation but you’re so beyond desperate it’s not even funny and everything is bright and sharp and focused and too fucking intense. Your dick hurts and your clothes are stifling and when you shift you have to turn your head and bury your face in a pillow to muffle a moan as starchy sheets scratch against your skin. You swear you’re sitting on your tie and you don’t even care because fuck you’re so turned on right now and you have to actually draw both your hands back, fist them on the pillows above your head to stop yourself from touching your dick. You want to draw this out, you want this to last, if you touch yourself you’ll be shooting so fast your trouser synonymous love soup will probably reach Alpha Centuri before you’ve caught your breath.

Actually, if you still had your time powers-

Bedsprings creak in the other room and you still, holding your breath. The sound of typing stops and. He’s getting up. He’s getting up and an irrational spike of fear shoots through you and you hope to god he’s just using the pisser – and then you slap yourself. Mentally. Mentally slap yourself. Your hands are still fisted on the pillows above your head. It’s not like it matters, he’s seen you naked and at your most vulnerable, fuck, he’s induced your most vulnerable states and you know he thinks you regularly flay him open and peel back his skin and expose everything he doesn’t want to see to the world but he has no idea how many times he does it to you not just through sex but just by simply existing-

“Hey, Dave,” he says, not even bothering to knock, that insensitive fuck. The doorknob turns, the hinges creak (you should really fix that, fucking annoying and makes getting around at night a bitch) and you make sure to keep your uncovered eyes trained on the general area of his face. “Ja-“

He stops dead and fucking. Flushes red, his face, his neck, and you know if he were shirtless the colour would leak all the way down to his nipples. And look at that, he’s already getting hard, he’s so fucking bent for you, you want to punch his infuriatingly handsome face.

Instead, you relax your grip and jerk your head. “Get over here, Egbert.”

He doesn’t move because he’s an insensitive dickwad that’ll leave a bro hanging even if his dick was right up against his face. “Dave.” His voice is a squeak. “Wh-“

“Get the fuck over here.”

He swallows and finally takes a step toward you. “You, uh.” His voice falters. “I. Didn’t hear.”

Why the fuck is he so perturbed? It’s not like he’s never walked in on you doing worse. Was it because he didn’t hear you? Did he really think you only milked the cow once in those three weeks he spent ignoring you?

He stops at the foot of the bed and just. Just stands there, and a spike of impatience surges through you and you shift, grab his hips and drag him closer until he falls onto the bed with an undignified squawk. He’s stronger than you, if you were actually wrestling he could’ve easily stood his ground, but as it stands you’re faster and you know how to use the element of surprise to your advantage. “What the fuck, Dave?”

“Shut up,” you say, crawling over him. “Just shut the fuck up.” And you’re kissing him, raking your nails down the the back of his neck and crushing your lips together. He grabs your hips, smooth his large hands down your back and you shiver, you’re still so hard and his touch just makes the sensations brighter and hotter.

You willingly move with him when he pushes you back. You don’t willingly let go of his arms and he frowns as he pries your hands off him. “Jesus Christ, Dave, you’re so impatient,” and he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you again and you swear your thighs twitch as you throb.

“You’re fucking taking forever, come on, dude, don’t leave a girl hanging, you can’t just barge in when I’m choking the chicken and expect me to-“

He doesn’t give you any warning when he jams his fingers in your mouth and you flinch, eyes wide, unresponsive for the first few seconds because what the fuck is in your mouth. Those are fingers. In your mouth. Rude, you were in the middle of a spiel.

You bite down. Or at least you try to, but his fingers are still in your mouth and pressing down against your tongue and it _hurts_ but in a good way and any lost boners have been regained, fuck. “Shut up, just shut the fuck up,” he says, throwing your own words back at you. He presses further when you try to twist your tongue out of his grip and you groan as they slide almost deep enough to make you gag. His other hand pins your hip against the mattress when you try to grind against his leg and fuck you hate him (he’s perfect).

“Even like this you can’t stay quiet.” And it’s only after he says that, that you realize you’ve been making high-pitched whines around his fingers, mouth open and taut, everything’s taut, you feel like one of his piano strings and his hands are resting on the right key but he’s not. He’s not pressing, he’s not touching you the right way (he’s touching you perfectly) and you writhe where he’s not pressing you down, toes scrabbling against unwashed sheets and it’s.

Too much. Too fucking much. He’s flushed still, presumably from the noises you’re making and from his bolder actions and he’s actually fully in control for once and there’s a low buzz building in your lower back. Fuck you want to see that blush travel from his neck to his chest and you want to touch him, run your hands through his chest hair and map out every plane of muscle.

And you do, reaching forward and slipping your hands under his tshirt. At the same time you close your lips around his fingers, welcoming the intrusion instead of trying to drive it out and he makes this wondrous sound and bites his lip, trying to trap it in his mouth. You waste no time, sliding your hands up his chest until you pinch both his nipples and he gasps, sliding his fingers out of your mouth and gripping both your hips and you’re so.

Fucking.

Hard.

“John,” you whine. He grips tighter, body nudging closer to yours until you feel the chafe of denim against your dick. “John, holy fuck you shitlicking douchebag, fuck me, fuck me you fucking gay asscunt, I swear to god-“

He’s trying to break you with how hard he’s gripping, crumbling you beneath his hands until you’re nothing but ashes and dust and you want him to trample you and breathe you in and you want to split open his spine and wear him like a jacket and you want him to fuck you and you want to fuck him until he’s broken and crying. “Lube,” he grits out, purposely ignoring your comments and you can’t find it in you to care. You stick your hand in your pillows, rummaging around until you find the bottle you’ve stashed before this little excursion. He seems surprised at first, and then he laughs at you and you want to punch him, you really do.

When his snickers subside, he squeezes a dollop on his fingers, circles around your entrance, and – no. “No,” you grit out, and he stills. “I need your turgid meat sword, okay, I’m a fucking experienced soldier just put it in me or I swear to god I will rip your dick off and stick it in myself.”

“Are you su-“

“ _Yes_ I’m fucking sure!” You’re so hard, so frustrated you’re on the verge of tears. “Don’t make me beg, I swear to god, daddy just-“

He sucks in a sharp breath and bites your neck and you keen, scrabbling at his clothed shoulderblades (you thank Nepeta every day for discovering that think) and pushing into the small of his back with your heels because can’t he see you need this, you don’t want it you _need_ it, his dick is your saviour, his dick is your salvation, you renounce all previous religious affiliations and are instead in the church of John’s dick. You’re the high priest, you’re the minister and reverend and bishop and pastor. The sound of him undoing his zipper is impossibly loud past the thudding blood in your ears and you impatiently yank at the bottom hem of his shirt.

“Dave,” he’s saying, hands closed possessively around your wrist. You whine and try to jerk your hands back and he only grips tighter and tomorrow you’ll see delicious purple marks where his hands were. “God you’re so fucking needy, just slow down-“

“Take your fucking shirt off before I rip it off your body.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, before wordlessly removing his hands and peeling his shirt off, carelessly throwing it on the floor. Your hands are almost immediately back on him, smoothing down his arms, his sides, his chest, and you want his fucking dick in you so bad.

You barely notice his hands at your neck, fumbling with the collar of your shirt, until he pulls your jacket and your dress shirt off and the tie stays on. Huh. You mentally file that away, something to tease him about later. Right now you’re busy obediently lifting your arms above your head as he rips your undershirt off and almost tears it in the process. He’s only adorned in his glasses and you’re only in your tie which you suppose evens out the playing field but that’s not what’s important here.

The important thing is, his dick is still not in you and you wanted it yesterday.

“Egbert-“

“I know, I know, shut up,” he grumbles as he squirts lube on his hands and coats his dick. And then there’s pressure against your schlong swallower and you arch your back as it pushes and pushes and-

It _hurts_ and you gnaw on your lower lip, sweat beading at your temples, your back as you try to adjust around his girth. Your dick has flagged a little and your love sacs feel heavy, drooping with potential future half-daves. John pushes in halfway and stops, breathing hard, and tenses when you grind down.

“Move,” you grit out.

His brows are furrowed and he’s breathing hard beside your head. “It’s- it’s too.” He swallows. “I can’t-“

“Daddy.”

He groans and you actually feel him pulse in you before he pulls out, slides back in, this time all the way to the hilt and fuck.

Fuck.

“Daddy,” you whimper and he jerks his hips, and you’re swearing, scrabbling at his shoulders because he knows exactly where to aim and it’s. It’s not enough, it’s too much and not enough and you’ve been on edge for so long – “Fuck daddy please touch me, touch me, I swear to god – I fucking can’t I’ll literally die, I’ll die, daddy just touch me I need you to touch me-“

“Dave,” he hisses, and then. And then there’s his hand on your dick and you cry out, spine arching as your hands slide down his arms, land by your side, grip the covers. He doesn’t try to be gentle, he just squeezes and strokes and strokes and it chafes and burns and it’s perfect, so perfect, he’s a selfish fucking idiot that half the time you want to punch in the face and his grip is too tight and if he loosens his fist you feel like you’ll break.

You’re writhing under him, trying to get closer and further away at the same time and you’re so fucking close you can taste it.

And he takes his hand away.

“What the fuck!” You want to punch him. You really, really want to punch him, the urge is so strong. You don’t even think when you reach down to grab your dick because you need to come you need it you need it but he grabs your wrists, pins them above your head and you’re dying, why can’t he see you’re _literally fucking dying_ from blue balls, fuck you hate him you hate him you hate him so much.

He looks at you like he knows what he wants but he doesn’t know that he knows and why’s he so good at this, why’s he so perfect, he’ll kill you someday and you’ll go willingly and it’s perfect, perfect how your dick hurts, perfect how it burns where you both connect because he is your fire and he’ll destroy you from the inside out. ”Please,” you’re whimpering between each gasp, each gasp that threatens to turn into a choked sob because it’s so good it hurts, he’s so good it hurts and you wonder if he knows the power he has. “Please, please, please, daddy, Egbert, John, please, please, please, I need it, I need it, I-“

His other hand comes up, fiddles with the tie you still have around your neck and your eyes widen as he pulls and suddenly it seems less like a tie and more like a noose. “I told you to shut up.” You close your mouth with a click, biting your tongue almost hard enough to taste blood and shudder as he twists until the tail of the tie is pointing the other way and held down by the same hand trapping your wrists. It’s not exactly slack but you can breathe as long as you stay in the same position.

“Pl-“

He pulls and your eyes roll back as satin bites against your skin and you desperately rut up, trying to find friction against his belly but his other hand presses on your hip until it falls back against the bed and he’s good he’s good he’s too fucking good god, fuck, and you can’t even talk, can’t even beg.

You let out a defeated whine and slump back, opening your legs wider and god you just. You just want to come, you don’t even care how, _you just want to come so bad_ but he never touches your dick, just continues to thrust, in out in out and it’s almost enough and there’s that slow warmth building at your toes but you want more you need more and you’re biting your lip to keep from begging, muscles tense as you try to not writhe but you can’t help it it’s too much too much too much-

He touches you and you explode, you’re breath and wind and fire and you swear you’re timelooping again because everything just stops and it’s strong so strong so much more intense and you’re sobbing, crying as you tug against his hand and surge forward and the tie bites into your neck and you choke and everything is white hot bliss and then you’re falling, drifting, and space re-orients itself until every synapse fizzes and fades and you come back to your own body.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Holy roasted shit on a skewer. Vaguely, you note that his spunk is dripping out of your ass and your hands are still held in a death grip, and he’s just hovering over you, panting as he stares down at your chest.

You breathe in, out, try and catch your breath, and laugh. “Holy shit, Egbert,” you whisper. “Where did that come from?” And how can you drag it out of him again? You hope this isn’t a one-time thing. You really hope this isn’t a one-time thing, you’ll pray, you’ll convert to whatever religion he wants, you’ll make him catch you masturbating every time if that’s what it takes.

He frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, and suddenly he’s back, John who ducks and avoids, John who runs and runs and runs and never stops. He moves to get up and yeah. No. You grab his midsection and flip him over so he’s lying on his side, ignoring his indignant squawking, and bury your face in his neck, breathing in sweat and sex smell and john, john, john.

He’s stiff, unresponsive at first but gradually relaxes until he’s pliant against you, just like you knew he would. You two stay like that for a while, nestled against each other, and you’re so chuffed that he’s okay with this, he actually stayed and not because he fell asleep on you. You’re actually pretty uncomfortable, sticky and gross and skin itching where it touches your tie and there’s dried semen crusted all over your ass but this. This is nice. This is nice and this is rare and you want to savour it because what if this is a one-time thing, too.

“Dave.”

His voice is quiet, and you breathe against his neck for a while longer before answering. “Yeah?”

“Jade’s coming to stay with us for a few weeks.”

What. “No she’s not.” You haven’t been in contact much with Jade after the game. You’ve both tried to maintain some sort of relationship but after your break up (after part of you broke up with her) it was far too strained and tense, especially as you fought to piece yourself together from all the splintered Daves that merged into one. You didn’t really plan on changing it.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his sex-mussed hair, which only makes it stick out more. “No, Dave, okay. Remember when you told me your bro was coming to stay with us for a week, and I said no way in hell, and he ended up staying anyway?”

“No.”

“Yes you do. You owe me one.”

“That never happened. I don’t owe you anything.”

You can feel him rolling his eyes. “Dave.”

Beat. “Ugh. Fine.”

You sulkily bury your face in his neck again while he laughs at you. “Man, Feferi’s gonna be so excited.”

Feferi? “What.”

He seems surprised at your lack of knowledge. “Yeah, dude, they’re dating. That’s why she’s coming, she needs a place to stay.”

Ah. “While she shacks up with her alien fish girlfriend?”

“You didn’t have a problem with alien cat girlfriend.”

“Shut the fuck up, John.”


End file.
